The Beggar Boy
by Ergott
Summary: "You remind me of a little sparrow," Lucinda continued after a pause, "all puffed up and dirty from grabbing at things in the street." She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "That's what I shall call you: Sparrow." Young!Jack/OC and Adult!Jack/OC
1. The Beggar Boy

The Beggar Boy

Unpleasantness had a way of being forgotten—when a disgusting smell offended the senses or a shocking event offended the sensibilities, people were first appalled and then pulled all their thoughts away from the offense. Like the beggar boy: most of those old enough to know remembered that there had _been_ a beggar boy, but no one remembered who he was or what he had been like.

Except for Lucinda; she remembered him quite well. She'd been six, perhaps seven, when she'd first run into him. The details of that specific day were foggy sometimes, but there had been many like them: days that she had managed to slip away from her nasty old Governess and cross paths with the beggar boy.

_She'd done it, little Lucinda crowed to herself. She'd managed to run away from the evil Governess Graff! The first thought that crossed her young, celebrating mind was that she wanted to see her father—he'd been at sea for an eternity, it seemed, but he was supposed to be coming home today. Lucinda smiled; she would go to the harbor and wait for her father, and he would be so pleased to see her right away that he'd pick her up and never let go._

_But when she finally got to the harbor, Lucinda felt a moment a fear. There were so many people around, every last one of them bigger than her, and not a single one was casting pretty smiles at her, like she was used to. She should have brought a friend to wait with her, she chastised herself._

"_Don't let him get away!" someone shouted, and before she could even turn around to see what the commotion was, something barreled heavily into her back and sent her sprawling to the ground._

_Her forearms stinging now, she began to cry almost immediately, but didn't protest when a young boy helped her up. He was a little older than her, but she recognized him as a neighbor. In fact, out of the small gang of boys now surrounding her, the only one she didn't recognize was the one who had knocked her flat._

_He was a wretched thing, she thought immediately. Tall and filthy, perhaps eleven or twelve years old; he was gangly, thin, and unkempt—no match for the group of well-bred boys surrounding him._

"_You ruined my favorite dress!" she accused him angrily, tears still in her eyes. "There's dirt all down the front now!"_

"_It'll wash out," he paused uncomfortably, not meeting her eyes and unsure what to call her._

"_Lucinda," she supplied heatedly, her tone suggesting that she was to be treated like a princess._

"_Look, Lucy—" he began._

_She cut him off with a glare. "Lucinda!"_

"_Lucinda," he repeated nastily._

_One of the circling boys pushed him for that, but when Lucinda glared at him too he backed away immediately._

"_Look at me," she demanded, a frown puckering her little brow. This boy was bothersome in every way possible: he was dirty, he was mean, and he wasn't even looking at her when she was talking to him._

_He finally looked up, and what the girl saw shocked her. His eyes were the exact color of her favorite chocolate candies: a rich mahogany-brown, with small highlights of gold and black. That wasn't the surprising part though—the surprising part was the humor in those depths, as if they were all playing a funny game and he knew he was going to win. There was even a crooked half-smile playing about his lips._

"_What's so funny," is what she meant to ask, but she got about as far as the 'what' before someone came up behind her._

"_Lucinda?" the tone was deep and concerned, older, and most definitely her father._

Her father had given all those boys quite the tongue-lashing for playing so roughly with a little girl, then he'd given her a tongue-lashing for wandering around the town on her own, and had listened patiently when she'd cried about her ruined dress. After a few days, she'd mostly forgotten about the beggar boy, but it would not be the last time they crossed each other.

_Graff was particularly wicked that afternoon, so Lucinda had slipped out the nursery window when her Governess wasn't looking. She'd nearly torn her dress when she'd landed in her mother's garden, but she'd come out free and mostly unscathed, so it had been worth it. But victory was short lived when she realized she had nowhere to go. With a shrug, she let her feet wander, searching out a friend or a familiar face._

"_Lucy?"_

_She whipped around, noticing for the first time that her feet had managed to bring her back to the harbor, and bristled at the nickname._

_Unsurprisingly, it was the rude boy she'd met nearly a month earlier; she'd nearly erased him from her memory, but now all her irritation came flooding back. "My name is Lucinda," she snapped._

_He nodded, but she got the distinct impression that he was actually ignoring her. "What are you doing here, all by yourself?" he asked, darting out from behind the stack of crates he'd been sitting near. _

_She drew away a little when he came too close, but she still answered him. "I ran away from my Governess." Her voice dropped conspiratorially, "I think she's a witch."_

_One of his eyebrows quirked and his half-smile began to bloom. "As in she's a terrible person, or she's actually in league with the devil?"_

_Lucinda stared at him blankly. "There's a difference?"_

"_Well, yes," he laughed, showing surprisingly clean teeth for a street urchin. "One is a crime punishable by death and the other is just a personality flaw."_

_She huffed a little. "Graff is terrible, always shouting at me."_

"_You know," he shook his head, trying to draw close again, "they'll fire her if you keep managing to run away on her watch."_

_Lucinda didn't draw away this time. "It's not my fault she's useless," the young girl said plainly._

The boy had laughed then, and the sound had been so carefree and wonderful that Lucinda had gone out of her way to search for him after that. He had become her reason for escaping, although she wouldn't dare to call him her friend for many more months.

"_What's you're name?" Lucinda asked the beggar boy, several weeks into their relationship. It was an odd thought that had occurred to her a few days previous, but the boy had never once introduced himself._

_He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."_

"_Don't you have a name?" she wondered aloud. When he didn't respond, she frowned. "You remind me of a little sparrow," Lucinda continued after a pause, "all puffed up and dirty from grabbing at things in the street." She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "That's what I shall call you: Sparrow."_

"_That's as good a name as any," he smiled, although she couldn't tell if he was being sincere or if he was simply laughing at her._

They'd become fast friends after that, meeting each other in all manner of places around town to talk and play games. Unlike the other boys she knew, it never seemed to bother Sparrow that she was a girl or so much younger than him; he'd seemed to enjoy their time together as much as she had.

But their friendship had caused problems for others: the neighbor boys had gotten angry, Graff had turned a worrying purple color whenever Sparrow's name had been mentioned, and the butler had taken it upon himself to chase Sparrow away whenever he was caught near Lucinda's home. On the other hand, the maids had just thought it was a harmless bit of fun, and the neighbor girls were always asking to be told stories about the wild beggar boy.

_Lucinda sat on her bed in a sullen haze. Graff had gotten so mad at her that morning that she'd sent the girl to her room. Now she was stuck on the second floor of the house with nothing to do, and it was maddening to her young mind._

_Suddenly, there was a noise just outside, and when she went to investigate, she found Sparrow sitting in the massive laurel oak tree near her windows._

"_You live in a very strange house, Lucy," he commented once she threw her windows open._

_Lucinda leaned eagerly on the sills, no longer taking offense at the nickname since it was a mark of their friendship. "What do you mean?"_

"_Everyday, your butler comes down to the harbor with a coin and tells me not to see you anymore," he smiled, "but then one of the maids comes over with two coins and tells me I ought to keep playing with you."_

"_Is that why you play with me?" she failed to mask her hurt miserably. Was he her playmate only because he was being paid?_

"_No," he shook his head, leaning as close as the tree would let him. "I'd find you, coins or not, and we'd still have all our adventures. Even if it was only the butler paying me to stay away, I'd never stop."_

"_Good," she laughed. "I'd be bored with you."_

That simple statement had been later proven to be painfully true, although she hadn't realized at the time that she was speaking a prophecy.

They played together for many more weeks, but Sparrow became increasingly moody and distant, like he knew something unpleasant was going to happen soon. Lucinda had feared that he was simply growing tired of having a girl half his age always hanging about him—she hadn't realized that something unpleasant _was_ on the horizon.

"_Lucy's in love with the beggar boy," the little Lords-to-be caroled at her and Sparrow._

_She threw a rock at the closest boy, uncaring that it was not the proper thing to do and that she would get into a lot of trouble if anyone found out. "If you ever say that again," she floundered for a moment, then brightened. "Whenever your mothers have tea with mine, I'll tell them all that you're the ones ruining my dresses, that you push me down in the streets and call me rude names!"_

_It was a weak threat, but the potential wrath of their mothers was enough to send the boys away._

_Lucinda turned back to Sparrow, ready to start their fake sword fight over._

_But Sparrow had a far away look in his chocolate eyes. "Would it be so bad if we were?" he asked quietly, lowering his stick-sword._

_Lucinda frowned. "Were what?" she asked, following his lead._

"_In love," he replied with his typically impish smile._

_Suddenly, she felt very uncomfortable. "I don't think—"_

_Sparrow cut her off excitedly. "It'd be like one of our adventures. Here," he gave her his threadbare coin purse, "see, it's something to remember me by, so that when I'm not around you can clutch at it and think about how much you miss me."_

_She took the purse, but didn't return his smile. Suddenly, her heart felt sick and heavy. "Why are you saying such things?" she asked worriedly. "Why should I need something to remember you by? If I miss you, I can just go down to the harbor and find you."_

_The light in his eyes dimmed and his smile slipped. "I won't always be there, Lucinda."_

"_Well then I'll search the whole town," she replied, beginning to panic. He never used her real name! What was he trying to tell her?_

"_Lucy—" he began._

_And, just like that, she knew—he meant to go away. "No! You can't leave me," she stamped her foot, "I forbid it!"_

_Sparrow sighed heavily, shifting on his feet. "I'm older than you, Lucy, old enough to be a powder-monkey or a cabin boy, old enough to have a purpose." There was pleading in his eyes—he didn't want her to be angry. "I don't want to be a beggar boy forever, you must understand that."_

_Lucinda felt her lower lip begin to quiver. "So you'd just sail away from me?"_

"_I suppose I'd be able to come back eventually," he shrugged. "The Caribbean's not _that_ big, after all."_

"_And what if you're killed?" she accused, tears running down her face._

"_Doesn't have much faith in you, does she, boy?"_

_They both turned at the new voice, Sparrow in resignation and Lucinda in fear. The owner of the voice was a curious man. He was tall and thin, dressed in clothes that neither matched each other nor him, there were jingling beads and trinkets in his graying hair, and he seemed to sway on his feet a little. Lucinda's first thought was that he must be a pirate; her second thought was that he had the same eyes as Sparrow._

"_You said your goodbyes yet?" he asked the boy and, not waiting for a response, turned to leave._

"_It's not really goodbye," Sparrow told her quietly. "Nothing can keep us apart, remember? Not a witchy Governess or a cranky butler—not even the ocean itself." He leaned close, until he was nearly whispering in her ear. "I'll come back, I promise."_

"_Come along, Jack," the retreating man shouted over his shoulder._

_Sparrow gave her a sad smile, then took her hand and kissed it lightly, like a gentleman, before dashing off to join the pirate. And Lucinda watched him go until long after he was out of sight, clutching his coin purse in her little hand. When she did finally move, it was only to smack straight into her butler who, for once, didn't look angry with her. She began crying immediately and in earnest._

"_Life's funny that way, lass," the butler soothed as they walked back to the house. "Sometimes, it just can't help but to take away what you want most. But never you worry, little one, you'll forget him in time."_

Lucinda had been furious at the suggestion, and perhaps that was the reason she had continued to hold onto the memory of the beggar boy long after everyone else had seemed to forget him. Or it could have been her anger at Sparrow himself that had kept his memory alive.

It had taken her a long time to come to terms with what had happened that day, to realize that the pirate with Sparrow's eyes had probably been his father. It had taken much longer to understand why Sparrow had gone with him, though. In the end, however, she'd come to realize that he couldn't have done anything else. He never would have been content to stay a beggar boy forever, he'd longed for the adventure that only the sea could give him and, though he never kept his promise to her, Lucinda was glad that he was probably living a better life out there somewhere.

* * *

A/N: The end? I'm debating whether to continue this little story or not. We'll see.

Nothing against Captain Teague, mind you—I really liked his brief screen time, but I don't think he'd have made a good father. Also, I guess this might explain why he and his son have different names.

On a personal note—I'm in the process of switching majors, living quarters, and schools, and I'm also heavily entrenched in writing an original novel. I may or may not have the time to continue this, or any other fic that is currently in progress. The only reason this was written was because I had to get the pirates out of my system; let's see if this did the trick.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any of its characters.


	2. The Little Lady

The Little Lady

Jack Sparrow was many things—handy, quick on his feet, easy to laugh, possibly even an insane genius—but forgetful was not one of them. He often wished he _could_ be forgetful though; he had a feeling it would make life at sea a little easier. But, try though he might, he could never quite erase the memory of his Little Lady from mind. It had been ages since he'd seen her, not since she'd been a tempestuous six years old and he an ever so dapper twelve. They had parted on a promise, one that he hadn't kept yet.

He sighed and slumped further against the railing of his beloved Pearl, using his hat to shield his expression from the crew.

When it came right down to it, Jack was afraid that he'd waited too long. For a year or two he'd been stuck at sea while his father taught him the basics of piracy, so there'd been no time to go back to the girl. After that, though, he'd wanted to wait until he'd built up a name for himself, something to impress his Lucy with. By the time he'd finally had a title worth bragging about—Captain! Lucy would be awed speechless when she heard—the whole mess with Barbossa had come about, and it had taken him _ten years_ to sort that trouble out.

They had separated nearly twenty years ago—it didn't seem like that long, but then Jack had treasured their time together more than anything. But still, eighteen years had come and gone, changing him in unimaginable ways, and he had no doubt that the Lucy he left behind was not the Lucinda he would find if he ever went back.

That was another problem that plagued him—for he did want to keep his word, no matter how long it took him to do it—how would he find her? In the years that had flown by, she might have left the island: been taken to England for schooling, or sent to another island to marry. His Lucy could literally be anywhere and, even if he did manage to catch up to wherever she'd gone, how would he recognize her? She would be about twenty-four by now, and would bare no resemblance to the rowdy creature he'd left behind. In the eighteen years that separated them, she would have become a true Lady.

What if she'd forgotten him? The thought made Jack feel sick—she'd been a ray of sunshine in a sea of endless gloom.

_Despite only being twelve, Jack could curse with the best of them—and he did, long and low and at his father. The crazy old dog had just left him—taken Jack away from his mother, and then dropped him at the first available island._

"_If you stay with your mum, she'll make you soft," Teague had said plainly. "Don't give me that look, boy, and don't think you can stay here, either. A ship is no place for a lad your age; give it a few years, and then we'll talk."_

_That had been nearly six years ago, and Jack had managed to skip at least four islands—though he was never sure if he was running from or to his father. He wanted to be a pirate, there was no doubt about that; he just didn't want to be Teague. His father was a strange man and, though often brilliant, he was as cruel as he was impartial. _

_So, Jack had taken to hopping islands, hoping to find a ship that would hire him, but no one wanted to sign on "Teague's boy"—the name was like a curse that would follow him throughout his whole life. _

_When the island hopping had turned out to be a dismal failure, Jack had taken to begging instead—the only ship that would take him was his father's, so he would wait for his father to find him—and though he had hated being known as "the beggar boy", he'd found a certain peace in his work. That didn't mean he found it interesting or enjoyable though._

_So Jack cursed as boredom and a bruised pride ate away at him, spewing out every word he could think of to slight his absent father. _

_And that had been precisely when the little Lords-in-training found him. Their ridiculously sensitive ears burning from Jack's swearing, they decided to beat some manners into him. So, Jack ran—not because he was frightened or because he thought he couldn't hold his own against the young nobility, but because it was more exciting if they chased him. He made sure to always run slow enough to give them the hope of catching him, but fast enough to always stay out of their hands._

_His first and only mistake was looking over his shoulder to make sure they were still right behind him, for it seemed that no sooner had he turned his head than he was crashing into something soft and small. When the crying started almost immediately, he knew it must have been a little girl._

_Not in the mood to play nicely, Jack had dusted himself off and allowed one of the other boys to help the girl up. Her snuffling was almost pathetic, but once she was on her feet, her anger bloomed. She snapped and snarled at him, finally demanding that he look at her, so he did. His world was never quite the same after that._

_The girl standing before him had to be at least half his age, but even at a tender six, she seemed uncommonly beautiful. She was pale, likely from staying indoors as much as possible, her hair was dark with just the vaguest hint of auburn highlights, her eyes were a clear hazel, and she was wearing a pale blue dress that now had a muddy streak from neck to knee. The little girl—Lucinda, she'd said, but she looked like a Lucy to him—stood before him, fluffed up with righteous indignation, and he couldn't help but smile at her._

Though Lucy probably hadn't felt the same until many months later, he'd considered her a friend from that moment onward. He'd seen a wanderlust in her young eyes, the same thirst for more that Jack felt in his own soul—he'd known in that moment that they were kindred spirits. And it had taken a while, be he'd eventually managed to convince her of the same fact. They had become thick as thieves, often stealing away to play games or tell stories.

_He wanted to kiss her, and that thought kept him in agony. She was only six, he couldn't kiss her! Lucy was so much younger than him and she still thought boys were disgusting, although Jack did seem to be the exception to her rule. But he didn't want to kiss her unless she knew what it meant, and at her age she would likely just think it another thing friends did._

_And that was the problem with taking a fancy to someone half your age. At twelve, Jack figured himself old enough to begin contemplating the intricacies of love, but Lucy was too young so he said nothing, did nothing. And it was killing him._

_Every time Jack looked at her, every time they snuck away together, his chest felt tight and he thought about how wonderful it would be if they never had to be separated. Whenever they played tag, he wanted to catch her tight to him and never let her go; when they clashed "swords" he wanted to kiss her little lips until she said that she loved him. However, he held himself in check, played the nice friend, and Lucy was never any the wiser for it. _

_But the butler knew. _

_A wheezy old man by the name of Henry, the Maplethorpe's butler saw right through "Sparrow", knew exactly why a boy twice Lucy's age continued to play with her—and he didn't approve. So Henry took it upon himself to chase the boy away. It didn't deter Jack, if anything it only made him want Lucy more; as much as it pained him to admit it, he was his father's son, and pirates were always obsessed with treasures that didn't belong to them. The Little Lady was the treasure he wanted, no man would take that from him._

_To be fair though, Jack might have been discouraged if it hadn't been for the maids. The Maplethorpe's maids were just as insightful as their butler, but infinitely kinder, and they had realized Jack's secret too. They had thought it was sweetly romantic, if a bit improbable, and had offered him words of encouragement and enough coins to outbid Henry's disapproval._

"_What would you do if Henry ever managed to chase you away for good?" Lucy asked him one afternoon._

"_Well, I'd just have to steal you away then, wouldn't I?" He said it lightly, jokingly, and Lucy laughed and smiled with him, but he meant every word. Jack didn't want to be separated from her—not yet, maybe not ever—so he would kidnap her if the time ever called for it._

Jack smiled a little, remembering how absolutely in love with Lucy he'd been, how determined he'd been to never leave her side. It hadn't taken long for life to destroy that rosy dream though. No sooner had he resolved to never be parted from his Little Lady than he had received word from his father. Teague had always had the worst timing possible, but that had been like a kick to the gut for the young boy.

On the one hand had been Lucy, who he'd wanted beyond all reasoning, and on the other hand had been piracy, the only career he'd ever thought to try his hand at. At the age of twelve, he'd been forced to choose between desire and destiny.

_He tried not to frown around Lucy, tried not to let her know how hurt and confused he was becoming, but she seemed to know anyway, though she never asked him about it. Jack felt like a drowning man: he knew what he had to do, but the longer he waited to act, the further he fell. Teague knew where he was, would show up any day now to collect him, and he still hadn't told Lucy that he was leaving._

_For a few days, Jack had toyed with the idea of sneaking Lucy off to the harbor, where they could hop islands together until Teague got tired of chasing them, but he knew somehow that it wouldn't work. Someone like Lucy couldn't live on the run, Jack really did want to become a pirate, and it was laughable to think that Teague would ever just give up._

_So he had just pretended that nothing was wrong instead, which hadn't worked out very well, since Lucy _knew_ something wasn't right. _

_On the very last day they'd be together, Jack gave her his coin purse—full of all the coins the butler and the maids had given him, for he hadn't wanted to spend _that_ money. He'd half joked that it was something to remember him by, a token of his love, but it hadn't really been a joke and, somehow, she'd known it. _

_And Lucy, usually so sweet and happy, was suddenly crying and angry with him, which was the last thing he wanted, but—_

_"Doesn't have much faith in you, does she, boy?"_

—_Teague had found him. _

_The moment slammed into Jack with painful clarity: this was it; he was going away with his father to become a pirate. He was leaving Lucy._

_And his father, ever the emotional void, didn't particularly seem to care that his son was facing the largest crisis of his short life. "You said your goodbyes yet?" was all the man asked before walking away, fully expecting the boy to follow._

_Jack had felt sick when he'd turned his eyes back to Lucy, who was still crying but now looking scared as well. Her hazel eyes were begging him not to leave. And so he had done the only thing he could: make a promise he wasn't sure he would be able to keep. But he'd had to give them both some kind of hope!_

_Jack came close to her, wishing he could catch her up in a fierce hug, preferably one that would never end. "It's not really goodbye," he told her softly. "Nothing can keep us apart, remember? Not a witchy Governess or a cranky butler—not even the ocean itself." He leaned closer still, his throat nearly closing at the thought of leaving her. "I'll come back, I promise."_

_Teague, growing impatient, shouted for him. "Come along, Jack."_

_Jack wanted that kiss he'd never been bold or wicked enough to take, but he didn't want Lucy mad at him in their last moments together. So, instead, he gave her a sad smile, and brushed his lips against her knuckles, like he was some sort of Lordling._

And, thanks to fate and circumstance, that had been the last time Jack had seen the Little Lady. He'd carried her memory with him through all the years though—changing his surname to Sparrow in honor of the nickname she'd given him. He often wondered, when he was in one of his more fanciful moods, if his Lucy had ever connected the beggar boy she'd known to the infamous Jack Sparrow.

* * *

A/N: To ease just a little bit of confusion, I'd like to mention that this takes place just after the event of Curse Of The Black Pearl. Though I did enjoy the other two movies, I haven't seen them enough to work them into this plot.

Also, this one was a little bit less 'I remember all the fun I had with my childhood friend' and a bit more 'I remember how crazy my childhood friend drove me.'

Considering the direction these two chapters/ficlets have both taken, there may be more to come.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I do not anything from Pirates of the Caribbean, nor am I making any money off this story.


	3. The Nagging Companions

The Nagging Companions

Lucinda was terrified of turning twenty-four, an age she was fast approaching. She knew twenty-four was not old by any stretch of the imagination, but she often felt it. In her short years she had found love and lost it, learned how to live without it, lived on three different islands, and had buried both of her parents, a younger sibling, and a husband. Only twenty-three, and already she was an orphan and a widow.

Lucinda strove to keep her humor, to keep the bitterness at bay; after all, change and death were inescapable parts of life, and though her fortunes had been dismal up to this point it did not mean that they could not improve. Twenty-four could be a turning point in her life, she reflected, it could be the start of something wonderful.

But probability told her not to hope too much, and so she clutched at her coin purse and dreaded her upcoming birthday.

Or, rather, she clutched at Sparrow's coin purse. She'd managed to keep it all these years, though there had been several occasions in which she'd feared it had been lost forever. These days she usually kept it hidden in the folds of her dress and used it to hold her own coins. She liked having it close, liked being able to lightly run her fingers over the fraying material when life seemed to overwhelm her. It wasn't the same as if Sparrow had been there himself to give her his special mix of blunt and improper advice, but his memory always calmed her, always brought a smile to her face. She had long ago accepted the fact that she would never see him again—even if he had managed to survive the last eighteen years, she wouldn't have the first clue as to what sort of a man he had become or what he would look like—but the memory was enough to keep her content, to remind her that though parting was painful, it was never enough to outweigh the joy of the friendships.

"Miss Lucy?"

Lucinda startled, nearly dropping the coin purse. She had moved to the island of Nevis a year ago, living in one of her late husband's homes through the grace of his brother. The servants at the manor home were mostly cheery and kind, especially the maids who had taken to calling her Miss Lucy. In truth, she didn't mind the name, but she'd always connected it to Sparrow, and so every time she heard 'Lucy' it sent a nervous shudder down her spine.

She stuttered for a moment before she collected herself. "Yes?" she finally managed to respond to the young, wide-eyed maid standing in her doorway.

"Lady Whetherton is here," the girl said, a slight frown puckering her brow. "She said she wishes to discuss a matter most private with you."

Lucinda nearly groaned, but she didn't want to confuse the poor maid any further. Agatha Whetherton was a good friend, but she thought that being a few years Lucinda's senior meant she knew what was best for the young widow. Her latest plan to brighten Lucinda's life was a birthday celebration, which Lucinda wanted no part in. It was bad enough that she feared turning twenty-four, she did not need half the island witnessing her terror as well.

"See her into the parlor and tell her I'll be with her in a moment," she replied. She didn't really need the extra time, she reflected as the maid left, but it was hard to face Agatha when the woman was in a scheming mood, so she took the moment to collect herself.

* * *

"Raiding a town takes more knowledge than any of us currently have," Jack Sparrow told his crew bluntly. "It could very well take weeks of learning the layout of the island, the caliber of the inhabitants, and the quality of the possible loot."

"Barbossa done it!" one of the newer hands shouted impatiently. "Sailed right up to island after island and sacked each one with the devil's own speed!"

Jack felt one of his eyes twitch at the mention of his former first mate. "Aye," he agreed sourly, "but Barossa couldn't be killed at the time, could he?"

There was some nervous muttering among the gathered crewmembers—no one liked being reminded of the high mortality rates pirates 'enjoyed'.

"Look, has anyone ever been to Nevis?" Jack asked, though he already knew the answer. "No? Then listen to what your ol' Captain tells you." He paused a moment, swaying lightly as he savored the feel of his command. "We'll sail around to the leeward side of the island and drop anchor somewhere out of sight. Then a select few of you will row ashore and do your best to learn everything we need to know—special points of interest include where the nobility lives and if there are any celebrations or ceremonies coming up that we might be able to use as cover."

"Sometimes, Jack," Gibbs shook his head as the rest of the crew turned back to running the ship, "I think ye be sailing under a different sort of piracy than the rest of us."

Jack sighed and scanned the horizon, knowing they would be coming up on Nevis in a matter of days. "We're low on wealth, Mister Gibbs, among other things. The easier we can get treasure without losing any shipmates or supplies, the better."

That wasn't the only reason for his caution, though. Most of his crew assumed it was because he was afraid of damaging or losing the Black Pearl so soon after he had gotten her back, but the truth of the matter was that it was his compass that was causing the real concern. For ten years, the compass had pointed straight to Barbossa and the Black Pearl, had done nothing but lead him to the revenge that he had so desperately desired—then, nothing. After his revenge, the compass had spun around uselessly for a few weeks, not leading him anywhere, because he couldn't decide what it was he wanted now. Then, completely out of the blue, it had begun to point toward Nevis one morning and Jack couldn't figure out why. It wasn't as though Nevis was particularly richer than any other island in the Caribbean, or that it had some unique item he couldn't find anywhere else. In fact, the only benefit he could see in going to Nevis was that it was nicely far from Jamaica and, therefore, the stupidly persistent Commodore Norrington.

* * *

Agatha was a vision of beauty—a plump and rosy blonde wearing the finest dress money could buy. She was not especially tall or lithe, but the corset and delicate falls of fabric around her imparted her with all the grace she needed. Though she was not noble by birth, the delicate folds of pale blue taffeta dared anyone to call the occupant of her dress anything short of a Lady.

Lucinda felt a little miserable next to her friend. She hadn't gotten a new dress in ages and, though nothing in her wardrobe could be even close to considered shabby, she had never owned anything at the very height of fashion. Agatha's dresses always put hers to shame.

"What is it, Aggie?" Lucinda finally asked when her friend merely sipped demurely at the tea Henry had brought in.

Agatha ignored the nickname and gently set her cup down. "You know I'll wear you down on this party business eventually. I'm already putting the whole thing together, in any case." She leaned back in her seat and appraised the younger woman. "Why don't you just give in?"

"I don't care for parties," Lucinda sighed. "Especially not ones meant to celebrate something as morbid as my inevitably advancing age."

"Nonsense," Agatha waved the complaint away. "Everyone loves parties. Just think of it as an excuse to wear your prettiest dress and find a nice young man to dance the night away with."

The brunette started, nearly dropping her cup. Aggie had never tried to play matchmaker before. What had brought this on? "I know Alasdair has been dead for a couple of years," she said as delicately as possible, "but I'm really in no rush to replace him."

"You're only twenty-three, Lucinda—a bit young to be giving up on marriage," Agatha shook her head disbelievingly. "You don't want to stay a widow forever, do you?"

"It has its benefits," Lucinda shrugged. "I can stay within the realm of polite society while not having to play by all its rules: as a widow, I'm allowed to own some property, and I don't have to worry about anyone entering me into a marriage contract against my will. I didn't wish for my husband to die, but his absence has granted me a small measure of freedom; why should I give that up?"

The blonde beauty frowned. "Alasdair was a fine man, God rest his soul, but everyone knows you didn't love him—"

Lucinda cut her off, "As a Lady, Agatha, I am fairly well doomed to never love any man I might marry." She shook her head. "Love has nothing to do with it."

"Then what is it, Lucinda?" Agatha nearly snapped, clearly frustrated. "I don't understand you. Don't you want a man's protection? Don't you want a family of your own?" Her hand flew to her mouth at the end of her last question and her face grew pale. "Oh Lucinda, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it—" she trailed off uncomfortably.

The widow hid her smile. Rumors had flown around for years that one or both of the Maplethorpe's were sterile, for they had produced no children over the course of their five years of marriage. In truth, she'd never lain with Alasdair as a wife; he had been neither interested nor healthy enough for such an intimate act, and she wouldn't have willingly submitted to him, in any case. Lucinda had only loved her husband as a friend, and he had not only respected that, but returned the sentiment as well.

"Like I said," she soothed over her friend's mumbled apologies, "I'm simply not in any rush."

Agatha stilled, her blue eyes filled with a wistful sadness. "You're my friend," she replied quietly, "and I want to see you happy, but sometimes I feel like you're waiting for something that will never come."

Their conversation, inevitably, turned back to parties and merrymaking, but Aggie's observation left Lucinda filled with restlessness. Even long after her friend had left to see to details about the party that the younger woman still hadn't agreed to, the words continued to chased each other around her thoughts. What _was_ she waiting for?

Her hand dove into the folds of her dress, curling instinctively around Sparrow's coin purse.

What indeed?

* * *

They weighed anchor just a mile offshore of Nevis, divided the crew into several groups, and decided that each group would row to the island in week-long shifts in search of whatever information they could find.

Jack couldn't figure out whether to stay or go. On the one hand, he didn't like the thought of leaving the Pearl solely in the keep of the crew; on the other hand, he hadn't been on dry land in weeks, and someone had to see to supplies if they were intending to stay for any length of time.

The decision was more or less taken out of his hands when Anamaria caught him gazing at the island. With her usual abrasive bluntness, she'd practically thrown Jack off his own ship, saying that he'd be no use to anyone if he was just going to "moon about." The woman was audacious to the core, but right, so he left without a fight, trusting the fearsome Anamaria to watch his beloved Peal.

He spent the better part of the day among the merchants, buying what he could afford and haggling for what he couldn't. Thieving and piracy were all well and good, but a man had to know his limits—he didn't want anyone wary of his or his crew's presence; the last thing they needed right now was to botch this raid. So he kept a low profile, using honest methods to procure some supplies and learn a little about the island.

Nevis was a tiny spit of land just a stone's throw away from St. Kitts and, unlike he had first thought, the small island held much of interest. There were rich sugar cane fields all around the island, and it seemed that it was a hub for the African slave trade in that part of the Caribbean. Indeed, there was much more money to be found on Nevis than he had originally assumed. If all went well, the raid of this one single harbor town would be enough to let the Pearl's crew live like kings for a couple of months.

By nightfall, Jack's good mood had given way to indecision again. He'd over thought his turn of good fortune and had realized that it didn't really add up. Sure, Nevis was a bright jewel waiting to be plucked, but he hadn't known that ahead of time, so why had the compass led him here? Had it merely sensed his desire for treasure and chosen the wealthiest island in the Caribbean for him, or was there something more to it? He hated not knowing but, at the same time, was wary about looking into his own desires too deeply—something about this job screamed personal where it shouldn't have, and that was simply a recipe for disaster. The longer he stayed on land, the greater his chances of discovering something that could put the entire raid in danger…

Yet he simply couldn't pull himself away. Somewhere on this island, a siren's song was being played just for him, and he'd be damned if he didn't figure out why.

* * *

Lucinda awoke to a general sense of dread. Agatha's talk of celebrations and husbands had gotten to her, giving her strange dreams.

With a sigh, she disengaged herself from her rumpled bedclothes, her lip curling in distaste when she realized she was covered in a sticky, uncomfortable sweat. Shaking her head, she turned to the terrace doors and opened them upon the midnight world. It was dark out, though the stars and the slim crescent moon did their best to give off some light, and despite the ever-present tropical humidity, the was a pleasantly cool breeze drifting up from the shore.

Quietly, Lucinda moved out into the cooler air and gazed unseeingly at the night-darkened land. On the whole her attention had been turned inward. Her dreams plagued her—unsettling dreams of love and loss, of pirates and beggar boys. She had dreamt of Sparrow many times since their parting, but tonight had been the first night she'd ever really entertained the thought of what might have become of him. He'd wanted to become a sailor, she knew that much, and she had guessed that his father was a pirate, so what if he had become a pirate himself?

One of her dreams came back to her with startling clarity:

_Tamarind Bay was on fire—great plumes of smoke jutted into the sky, consuming every house, shop, and ship they could. The townsfolk ran amid the deadly fires, crying, panicked, looking for loved ones and safety. Here and there, a pirate ran by, causing chaos and cackling merrily as they plundered the abandoned buildings. _

_Lucinda shivered; the fires were ungodly hot and made the night as bright as day, but she was shaking from head to toe in fear. She was not usually a woman given easily to fright, but she couldn't shake the feeling that if ever Hell had existed on Earth, this was it. Unsteadily, her feet took her to a small hill, well away from the fires, where she could watch the town slowly die. It took her several moments to realize that the hill was not unoccupied._

_There was a man standing not three feet behind her, and she knew, somehow, that this was her long-lost beggar boy. He had become a tall, unattractive man, with short, greasy hair cut to his ears, and grimy clothing that hung off his too-thin frame. Where once there had been a mischievous smile and a kind look in his eyes, there was now nothing but greed and cruelty. The humor and sweetness had gone from him, leaving a toughened, bitter man behind._

"_I promised to come back, dinnit I?" he rasped in a gritty voice._

At which point Lucinda had woken up with a nagging sense of disquiet.

Thinking over the dream now, she couldn't help but shudder. She'd always thought it would be wonderful if life would grant her one more day with Sparrow, but she had never considered the possibility that he would be different. If the charming boy she'd known was no longer reflected in the man he'd become, then perhaps it was better for them never to reunite. She would much rather live with the bittersweet memory of the beggar boy than have that memory ruined by some twisted nightmare of a man.

Shaking herself, she turned her eyes back to the real world. For a brief moment, just before she went back into her room, Lucinda thought she saw someone in the street, but a cloud scuttled across the moon, making too dark to tell.

* * *

A/N: Just as a reminder, this story takes place after the events of CotBP, and while I will not be bringing in the plots of the other two movies, I will be bringing in an element or two—like the fact that Jack's compass points to the possessor's greatest desire.

Also, Nevis is a real island, though I admit I only did the barest amount of reading on it. The problem is that I'm not really sure what year CotBP was supposed to be set it, so I'm going with somewhere around 1710, which would have been about the middle of the golden age of piracy (also the middle of Queen Anne's reign). Anyway, this indecision about the year makes choosing islands a little difficult.

"And it was there, amid the flash and sparkle of chapter three, that the story finally moved away from its twin prologues and took on some semblance of plot."

Thank you many times over to everyone who reviewed the first two chapters—your encouragement and enthusiasm was greatly appreciated. I wanted to respond to everyone, but time has been prohibitive (but don't be surprised if you do eventually get a review response).

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I own an assortment of side-characters and Lucinda, but I do not own Jack, Gibbs, Anamaria, the Black Pearl, Commodore Norrington, or anything else I might mention from the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. I mean no harm, and I am certainly not making any money off of Disney's wonderful characters.


	4. The Curious Mister Teague

The Curious Mister Teague

Jack carefully studied the neat row of manor houses that marked the farthest reaches of the bay society. These were not the rich houses of plantation owners, but the gaudy homes of Tamarind Bay's elite. Here and there, there was a nicely appointed touch but, on the whole, the manors lacked sense just as much as they did evidences of poverty. Servants bustled about, pouring out and between their places of employ, some running to the market or the docks, others hitching up carriages and brushing down horses—it was funny how the homes of the laziest people of society were always hotbeds for activity.

It was early morning, the sun just peaking over the horizon; Jack had been wandering amid the manor homes since the deepest reaches of night, a strange sense of nostalgia stealing over him—he was so strongly reminded of his childhood that it was downright eerie. He had come to this part of the bay in search of his siren, and he wasn't sure if he'd found it or not. The rich homes would provide a nice haul, to be sure, but he was almost certain that _this_ was not what the compass had brought him to Nevis for.

In which case, he was at a loss—Tamarind Bay was prime raiding material, but he knew he would be unable to leave until he had figured out what he was even there for.

His thoughts turned to the woman he'd spied last night: a pretty little thing in no more than a thin night gown, standing alone on the terrace of one of the gaudier manors. If only his siren were something that simple, Jack thought wistfully. But then again, maybe it was. The agreeable lasses at Tortuga were wearing on him—and boycotting him as well, but it was hardly his fault that they were so fickle. In any case, he hadn't enjoyed the company of a fine woman in ages and, if Tamarind Bay was any indication, Nevis had a bevy of them.

Jack turned back toward the market and town center, shaking his head at his own train of thought. "Perhaps you _have_ been out in the heat too long, Sparrow."

* * *

"Oh no, this simply won't do."

"What is it?" Lucinda frowned, putting her book down in order to watch Agatha. The woman had arrived just as Lucinda's breakfast plates had been cleared away, which was damnably early by anyone's standards, and had then proceeded to invade the younger woman's home.

Agatha stepped away from the armoire, fluffed her blonde curls, and sighed. "You haven't bought a single thing since Alasdair passed, have you?"

Lucinda shook her head—she already knew where this was going. "Of course not. It would have hardly been proper for a mourning widow to go out and buy a new wardrobe."

"Well, you'll need something new for the celebration," Aggie replied, sitting down in an overstuffed chair before the fire.

Lucinda rolled her eyes and returned to her book. "I still haven't agreed to anything."

The blonde immediately stole the thick tome and sat on it. "Agreed or not, this celebration is happening, and I will not have you showing up to your own birthday in rags."

"I hardly own anything that could be considered rags, Aggie," the young widow smiled bemusedly. Agatha would have her way of course; they would end up at the dressmaker's eventually, but the argument was always worth it.

Eventually turned out to be just before noon, and Lucinda had to admit that, though she didn't want to endure something as boring and ridiculous as another birthday celebration, she was rather looking forward to purchasing a new dress. Or, at least, she had been until she saw what a fuss everyone at the shop was making.

* * *

It had been a severe error in judgment—Jack would readily admit that—but the thought of procuring Anamaria a dress so fine that she had no choice but to wear it, at least once, had been painfully tempting. Stuffing his perpetually angry Quartermaster into an uncontrollable froth of satin and lace was simply too funny to pass up. At least, that's what he had thought until he'd stepped into the dressmaker's; a small battalion of women had immediately descended upon him, cooing and questioning, trapping him until further notice.

After the second hour of relentless questions about the dress for his "younger sister" Jack decided to chalk the whole insanity up to sleep deprivation. He hadn't slept a wink since the Black Pearl had pulled into Nevis—though he had managed to find himself slightly less conspicuous clothing—and he was paying the price for that now.

He eyed the matronly dressmaker as she bustled about; after all the questions she had asked him, she probably knew Anamaria just as well as he did, yet she refused to let him leave just yet, always swinging around with a question on her lips the moment he felt like it was safe to bolt. And her assistants were no better, trying to make coy conversation with him every time their employer turned away. Under most circumstances, Jack would have found that wickedly pleasant, but the dressmaker had a habit of snapping at her young charges, and it made him more nervous than it did them. When this was all said and done, he would have absolutely no compunctions about taking the dress without paying—if he ever made it out of the shop, that is.

In fact, Jack was just about resigning himself to his fate—if they ever buried him, his tombstone would be beyond ironic: "Here lies Captain Jack Sparrow; bored to death in the domain of women,"—when someone else entered the shop. He prayed that this would mean a reprieve for him but, apparently, the dressmaker was capable of holding several customers prisoner at once. However, as far as cellmates went, they were quite lovely.

The first to enter was a blonde woman. She was short and a little plumper than was considered strictly fashionable, but striking nonetheless: her hair was threaded with thick ribbons and fell in carefully arranged curls, and adorning her was a dress of delicate blue silk decorated with pale pink rosettes. But the quiet swish of her fine fabric was completely drowned out by her kind albeit bossy voice.

Just behind the blonde was a lovely brunette wearing a bemused smile. This one was on the short side as well, but not nearly as wide as her companion, making her appear much smaller and younger than she probably was, especially in the dress she was wearing. It was a fine dress, no doubt about it, but the somber purple skirts were a little fuller than necessary, and the excessive fabric appeared to be drowning its occupant.

Glad for at least some distraction, Jack kept his eyes on the pair of ladies. Their conversation floated in and out of his hearing, but he gathered that the brunette was being strong-armed into buying a new dress.

The shop was set up in a great rectangle, the floor scattered with a grid of dress forms, each one displaying a distinctive style of dress, while great bolts of fabric lined the walls. There was a smaller room off to the side, meant for fittings or taking a lady's measurements, which was currently were the dressmaker/warden was hovering. The two ladies, however, were weaving between the dress forms, chuckling quietly to each other or letting out brief exclamations of awe. When they moved out of earshot, Jack found himself wandering after them—they were his only entertainment in this feminine hell, after all.

"What about this one?"

"I shall look like a lady of the night in a gown so scandalously cut!"

Jack listened carefully, watched carefully, and fully meant to keep his distance.

But he just couldn't help himself.

* * *

The gown before Lucinda was awe inspiring, a real thing of beauty, but she would look ridiculous in it. It was a problem she often had—with her girlish, maidenly appearance, she often looked like a young miss borrowing her mama's gowns. Rare indeed was the dress that could both look beautiful in its own right and make her look like a woman grown.

"I can't, Aggie." Lucinda sighed despondently. This trip was fast turning into a disaster, and she was quickly remembering the real reason she hadn't bought anything new since Alasdair's death. "I'm sorry."

"Are you sure?" Agatha frowned, lovingly fingering the folds of the dress in question. "It's positively fashionable—you'd be the belle of the ball in this gown!"

Lucinda held down a snort. "People would certainly stare, although not for the reason you're thinking of, I'm sure."

Agatha winced. "You do tend to look rather young in formal attire. Perhaps if we found something with skirts that aren't quite so full?"

"If I might offer an opinion?" a male voice interrupted from behind them.

Lucinda turned, bemusement already coloring her face again—it was rare to find a man in the dressmaker's; many of the women in Tamarind Bay had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that their husbands and fathers simply had no taste in fashion. But here stood a man, obviously uncaring of such a stereotype.

And what a man he was! He stood at least a full head taller than her, but he was lean and whippish, like the boys who ran to and from the harbor. His clothes were simple and rather understated—dark boots, dark trousers, a white shirt without a cravat of any kind, and a darkly colored waistcoat that hid under an equally dark greatcoat. In fact, his clothing almost appeared to be a study in acceptable blandness, for they was so completely unadorned. He would have been a perfect candidate for a newly successful merchant, if one avoided looking any higher than his shoulders. His hair was unfashionably long for a man, trailing well past his shoulders and, though he'd tied it back with a thick ribbon as gentlemen were often wont to do, he had braids threaded through the wild mass of mahogany hair; most unusually, there were braids in his beard as well. Peeking out from behind sooty-dark lashes were eyes of a deep brown, nearly black color, and they gazed out at the world in amusement.

He was fascinating as soon as one took in his appearance, and yet there was just the slightest hint of danger about him. This man was either very wild, Lucinda decided, or he was newly reformed.

Agatha interrupted her assessment, dipping a cute curtsy to their new companion. "By all means, Mister…?" she trailed off uncertainly.

"Teague," he offered immediately, a frown playing around the corner of his lips as soon as he had done so.

Teague? Lucinda frowned inwardly. She knew that name from somewhere, didn't she? It sounded so familiar, yet the reason eluded her.

Mister Teague recovered quickly, his hands moving restlessly about. "I couldn't help but notice the both of you admiring this dress, but you," he turned to Lucinda, "hesitated. Why is that, Miss...?"

"Maplethorpe," she supplied, not caring to correct the 'Miss' part. "And I hesitated because it's very plain to see that I would look silly in this dress."

He frowned slightly at her name, but continued on. "You fancy it though, don't you?"

"Of course," she frowned. "It's a very lovely dress, but I—"

He shook his head, causing one of his braids to slip free, which he immediately pushed behind an ear. "If you want something," he said lowly, a strange near-growl lacing his voice, "you don't take your eyes off it, no matter the circumstance nor the consequences."

"That may be all well and good for you, Mister Teague," Lucinda huffed, "but I would look like a playacting child in this gown."

"You must admit," Agatha finally joined the conversation, "she is rather more petite than the sort of woman who would normal wear this dress."

"Doesn't matter," Mister Teague shook his head again, loosing more braids. "If you truly want something, you find a way to fit it into your life."

Lucinda narrowed her eyes—she was quickly losing her patience, and discussing a dress she wanted but could not have was not improving her mood. "What would you do then?" she snapped at the interloper.

He smiled at her flash of temper—a gesture that was eerily familiar for some reason—and motioned toward the dress. "Take the sleeves further up the arms, letting them drape from your elbows, thin out the fullness of the skirts a little, lower the bodice about an inch, and have the silk done in a bold, vibrant color. Red, perhaps."

Lucinda tried to picture it in her head, but she kept getting stuck on his suggestion for color. "Red? That's quite scandalous for a lady, isn't it?"

Agatha leaned close so that only she could hear. "You're a widow now, what cares have you for scandal? You told me you were a free woman—doesn't that mean you can wear whatever color you want? Besides, his suggestions sound lovely."

"And just bordering on inappropriate," she hissed back.

"I guarantee," Mister Teague interrupted the quiet battle, "if you cut a dress like that, you will look every inch the woman you are."

Aggie chose that moment to finally gasp at their companion's unconventional bluntness, but Lucinda found herself oddly charmed. And she had to admit that, for a man, he had excellent taste, knew precisely what looked best on a woman. If she followed his direction, she would no doubt end up with a dress that actually flattered her for once.

"You're quite bold, Mister Teague," Lucinda smiled, "but I find that I rather like it."

And so they continued around the shop, critiquing gowns for the better part of an hour, until Lucinda had the beginnings of a completely new wardrobe rather than just the one dress they had come in for.

* * *

Jack found himself strangely at peace as he watched the two ladies talk to the dressmaker. He was still itching to escape the feminine prison, but he was rather enjoying the company of Lady Whetherton and Miss Maplethorpe. Especially Miss Maplethorpe—she was an interesting conundrum: calm and demur as any lady one moment, spitting nails and bossing people about the next. If he hadn't come to Nevis with the intention to raid it, he would have been happy to give this woman much more attention.

"Mister Teague?" the woman in question interrupted his thoughts.

Jack frowned inwardly as he heard his chosen alias once more. What had possessed him to go by his father's name—the very name he had so staunchly refused as a child? It wasn't exactly a safe alias either, though it had been some years since anyone had feared coming face to face with the infamous Captain Teague. Still, it didn't have the pleasant, improbable anonymity as his usual standby: Smith.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts—even he didn't understand how his mind worked sometimes. "Miss Maplethorpe?" he turned to his companion, affecting the best 'polite smile' he could.

She considered him for a moment, then turned her attention back to Lady Whetherton, who was locked into negotiations with the dressmaker. "Can I confide in you?" she asked after a moment, still turned away from him.

"Absolutely," he replied, surreptitiously admiring the curve of her shoulders and the gentle slope of her back. He'd been without a woman for so long, and she was a fine one indeed.

"It's not really the clothing that I'm looking forward to," she turned back toward him, an absent smile curling the corners of her lips. "It could be anything of fine value and I would be happy to have it. I simply love getting new things, no matter how impractical. Does that make me greedy?"

He returned her smile in truth, uncaring that others would see the silver and gold scattered about his teeth. "No, milady," Jack replied, "I believe that makes you interesting."

The woman was more pirate than she realized. There was an honest charm about her, a boldness that others of her station would not dare to affect. And, though he couldn't attest to wanderlust, she certainly had the lust for treasure—each new gown had lit her eyes with something fierce and demanding. Even after he had decided that she could not merit more attention under the circumstances, he found himself insatiably curious. This was not a lass one walked away from—and when had he ever given heed to limitations?

Which was why, when she proposed that they leave the details to Lady Whetherton and quietly slip out of the shop, he followed her lead. He was curious and certainly not above using his new companion as an excuse to flee the dressmaker's.

They wandered the streets together, collecting scandalized looks from passersby.

"I never thought I'd get out of there!" Miss Maplethorpe breathed.

"You're lucky," Jack chuckled. "I was stuck for nigh on three hours."

She looked appropriately horrified by that revelation, but the expression quickly gave way to a smile. "What business does a man such as yourself have in a dressmaker's shop anyway?"

"None, apparently." He smiled dashingly. "Actually, I was hoping to get a dress for a friend of mine."

"A friend?" she frowned. "A lady friend, you mean?"

Jack didn't even bother covering his snort. "I should certainly hope so."

The young Miss shook her head. "It doesn't seem very proper."

He found it amazing that she could make such comments while continually doing things herself that could not be considered proper. "I think it would seem even less proper if it were _not_ for a lady friend," he replied quickly.

She thought about it for a moment, then laughed. "That's wicked of you to say! Are you always so sharp witted?"

Jack nodded, a smirk twisting his lips. "Much to the annoyance of those with whom I sail."

She laughed, clutching at something hidden in the folds of her skirt. "Mister Teague, you are, without a doubt, the most curious man I have ever met."

More so than she would ever realize.

* * *

A/N: Anyone else starting to feel that Jack has poor impulse control?

I'm having issues with the language, since I don't usually write things set so many centuries ago and I really have trouble with dialects, but I'm doing my best. Jack was rather well-spoken for a pirate though, so I don't feel like I'm too far off the mark.

Please Review! I will respond eventually.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything recognizable as having come from Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean.


	5. The Locked Door

The Locked Door

Lucinda watched Mister Teague leave, suffering from the nagging sense of déjà vu all the while. She didn't blame him though—as soon as Agatha had caught up to the strolling pair she had quietly inserted herself between the two and had begun frowning at near everything they wanted to talk about. To his credit, Mister Teague had played nice for a few minutes, but had soon made his excuses to be quit of the two ladies, and it was with a curiously heavy heart that Lucinda watched him go.

"What a strange man," Agatha shook her head and chuckled.

Lucinda raised a brow. "That didn't stop you from inviting him to the celebration I still haven't agreed to."

"As a way of offering my thanks," Aggie countered. "You have to admit, proper or not, he was a great help to us back at the dressmaker's." She sent a sidelong glance at the younger woman. "And I couldn't help but notice how well the two of you seemed to match one another."

"Oh Aggie, no," Lucinda groaned. "Mister Teague is an interesting man, mind you, but I already said that I enjoy being a widow, and I meant it. Don't you dare start playing matchmaker with me."

"You're twenty-three and high-strung, Lucinda," her companion sighed. "It would take an unconventional man like Mister Teague to weather that—but if you say you want to be left alone, than that is what I shall do. Besides, it's not as if we know anything about the man anyway."

And yet, Lucinda couldn't help but feel like she did know him. Every once in a while, the man had made a gesture or used a phrase that had been oddly familiar to her, but she couldn't figure out why. If he reminded her of someone, she could not think of them and it was driving her mad.

In fact, she spent the better part of the day going quietly insane as she tried to fathom her erstwhile companion. His memory haunted her all throughout the remainder of the afternoon, refused to leave her during supper, and downright teased her when she was trying to sleep. She supposed the trouble all came from the fact that she was a woman now rather than a girl, and Mister Teague was a decidedly memorable man.

Lucinda could admit that she had never looked for love in a man, and had therefore never felt the need to admire a man as anything more than temporary company. But Mister Teague had simply demanded attention, and she had been more than willing to give it. In a sinful way, she had admired his body—even under the guise of his markedly bland clothing, he had radiated power and appeal—and in an intellectual way, she had enjoyed his quick and often biting wit. But there had been the aftertaste of violence and danger hanging around him; though he tried very hard to hide it, she knew that he was ruthless in his own way. And there was something else there that she wasn't seeing, the echoes of something she was meant to understand but didn't.

Or, perhaps, wouldn't.

* * *

He had retreated to the Pearl for some rest and to make sure that his bartered supplies had made it onboard. For once, everything had gone off without a hitch, and so it was a very relieved and grateful Jack Sparrow that went to sleep that afternoon.

He awoke again in the depths of night, probably around one or two in the morning, seeing as it was Mister Cotton who was on watch. The old mute wandered up and down the quarterdeck, his parrot clicking softly and fluffing its feathers against the chilly seaward breeze. Jack was just about to take another moment to enjoy the fact that he was a Captain in truth again—that he had the Black Pearl and was sailing like any good pirate should—when he noticed that he and the watchman were not alone.

Anamaria was leaning against the railing, her dark eyes turned forlornly toward the island. There was a sadness in her expression and it seemed painfully out of place to him, given her usual gruffness.

Quietly, Jack came to rest next to her. He had an uneasy understanding with his Quartermaster—she did not attack him, and in return he pretty much gave her control of the quarterdeck. They stayed out of each other's lives as much as possible but, as Captain, he would not ignore suffering. "Thirsty for dry land?" he asked after several silent moments.

She nodded her head, pulling a strand of raven hair out of her face. "Aye."

"You can go out as soon as the current landing party comes back," he reminded her.

"Not this island, Captain Sparrow," Anamaria laughed bitterly. "This one, I won't risk."

"No," he replied, suddenly remembering the slave auctions he had witnessed, "I s'pose I don't blame you."

Life was becoming increasingly difficult on land for Anamaria. Though much of the New World was still a little lawless, the slave trade was booming and no one seemed to care that she was a free woman.

She sighed, a broken-hearted note in her voice. "It's happening all over the Caribbean—there are fewer and fewer islands I can set foot on unless we're raiding them."

"It's a good thing you turned pirate then, isn't it?" he asked lightly.

"Aye," she actually smiled for once, however short-lived. "But I don't think I'll ever stop wanting my shore leave."

Jack nodded. "It's a painful thing to be caught between desires."

Her head finally perked up and she turned to look at him. "I think I hear a story in there somewhere."

"Any pirate will tell you that his first and only love is the sea," he told her seriously, gesturing out to the still waters around them. "They are all lying. Most men have themselves a sweetheart somewhere."

Anamaria's eyes widened in disbelief. "Do you have a sweetheart, Captain?"

Jack laughed, although it was more at himself than her question. "Unfortunately, at this moment, I think I may have two. And neither of them are accessible."

"Oh?" Feminine curiosity was suddenly lacing her voice, which was startling because one usually forgot that she was, in fact, a woman.

"I met a Lady today," he sighed, turning his gaze to the sleeping Tamarind Bay, "a sweet young thing that made me _want_."

"But you already have yourself a lass," Anamaria supplied knowingly.

"That I do," he smiled, "but I'm not always sure that it would be wise to go after my girl. So I sit and I want and I stare at things I can't have and _it's killing me_."

She shook her head in that feminine way that implied all men were daft. "Then just find your lass and be done with it."

"S'not that easy," Jack replied, running a hand over his face. "You see this is where the story comes in—my lass is high born and I haven't seen her in eighteen years."

"Eighteen years?" She laughed, a rich sound that would have been lovely if it weren't at his expense. "You're nothing but a schoolboy with a crush!"

"Painfully true," he nodded, "aside from the schoolboy part and the crush."

Anamaria cast a sideways glance at him, the disbelief back in her eyes. "The only thing I've ever seen you _love_, Captain Sparrow, is this ship," she said slowly. "I thought you were incapable of loving anything else."

A wicked, somewhat nostalgic smile curled his lips. "You've never met my Lucy."

She rolled her eyes. "There's nothing more disgusting than a man in love." Finally, she straightened up from the railing, waving her hands at him as she did so. "Off the ship with you."

Jack's smile melted into confusion. "What?"

"It was bad enough when you were hell bent for leather over reclaiming the Black Pearl," Anamaria replied, starting to push him toward the remaining dinghy. "Craving makes you more unpredictable than usual, which is a horrifying notion, and I've no desire to live through that again. Mull it over or find yourself some distraction, but either way you aren't coming back until your head's on straight again."

"I've only just come back," he protested as she pushed him into the tiny boat, "and it's _my_ ship!"

"You knew what you were getting into when you signed me aboard, Sparrow," she smiled wickedly at him. "You've no one to blame for this but yourself."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but a smile teased the corners of his lips. "See if I ever try to cheer you up again!"

"Perhaps, Captain," she said just before she cut the line holding the dinghy in place, "it's you who needs cheering up more than me."

Jack's stomach turned at how frighteningly insightful Anamaria had gotten, although dropping twenty feet into the ocean may have enhanced the feeling somewhat.

* * *

Captain Teague was not a man given to indecision or inaction, but he found himself contemplating both. And that was the problem with being retired—he didn't know where his boundaries were meant to be. He had stepped off his ship, stepped out of his life, and devoted everything to being the Keeper of the Code. It was a fine calling, to be sure, and Shipwreck Cove was nothing if not interesting, but something just wasn't sitting right with him.

Did the Pirate Codex _have_ to stay in Shipwreck Cove? The Brethren Court hadn't met in decades, and it would be easy enough to make it back, should the current Pirate Lords ever want to assemble. There was absolutely no reason he had to confine himself and his crew to this place.

That was it, wasn't it? Teague was being overwhelmed by restlessness. He'd felt a change in the wind recently—a strange, subtle murmuring that made his bones ache and his heart feel sick. Something was about to happen, something that wasn't supposed to, and he knew, somehow, that it had everything to do with his thickheaded boy.

He'd left Jackie alone these past few years, as much as he'd been able to; they'd never really seen eye to eye and it had put more strain on their relationship than was necessary. Teague could admit that he had made a lot of mistakes where the boy was concerned, but that didn't mean he'd ever give up trying to raise the kid. And if his boy was about to make a stupid mistake, it was his right as a father to be there to correct it.

Mind made up, Captain Teague informed his aging crew that they were pirates, and pirates did not retire. If the Code needed keeping, then there was nowhere safer than their ship.

Now all he had to do was find his stubborn Jackie and straighten out whatever mess the boy had gotten himself tangled into.

* * *

Jack shook the compass in frustration, hoping that would jog it out of giving such erratic answers. He had thought, after being thrown off his own ship for the second time since making port, that he would discover why the compass had brought him to Nevis once and for all. Much to his increasing annoyance, the needle seemed to lose its way once he was on land—it had led him through a maze of streets, from one end of Tamarind Bay to the other, through no less than three different inns, the dressmaker's for some unholy reason, and then to the row of manor houses. Upon arrival of that final destination, the bloody stupid instrument had decided it would be fun to spin around uselessly, and so Jack shook it, but that didn't seem to help matters.

With a sigh, he lowered his hand and contemplated the extravagance around him. He wouldn't lie, there was much to be desired in this part of the town, but what was he meant to find here that was so special? It was at times like this that he almost wished he were a child again—things had at least been clearer then.

The compass jolted dead North. Eyes narrowed, Jack studied the temperamental little box in his hand; it had picked a gravely suspicious time to start behaving.

Still, he wasn't one to second-guess fortune; dead North was the gaudy home he'd spied the previous morning. It was early enough that even the servants might still be sleeping; he could just pop in, take a look around, swipe anything of interest, and then be on his merry way. Not a bad morning for a pirate, really.

Jack went around to the back of the manor, sneaking in through a kitchen window. The house was dark inside, and silent as the grave. He was perfectly alone, which was a good start for petty thievery.

"Lost your way, boy?" a low, wheezing voice asked.

Jack winced, not as alone as he had thought. He turned toward the voice, wincing again when a lantern was suddenly lit.

The man revealed by the flames looked one solid cough away from the grave. He was ancient and wizened, bent at an uncomfortable angle. But his pale eyes were clear and clever, peeking out from a face that had more wrinkles than shape, and topped by a shock of pure white hair. He was dressed in the finery of a well-employed butler, and held himself with all the self-importance that such a position called for.

Knowing he was caught, the pirate tried to smile charmingly—it wouldn't do for this wraith of a man to wake the rest of the house. No, it would be better for everyone if he just beat a hasty retreat; he could always come back later, after all. "I was just leaving," he said brightly.

But he'd done no more than turn around before the butler spoke again. "Don't think I don't recognize you, beggar boy," the old man wheezed.

Jack froze, his world suddenly upside-down. He'd buried that past down deep, yet this old fool _knew_. How?

He turned abruptly, rounding on the butler, and it was there, as he stared into those accusing blue eyes, that Jack found a familiar face. "Henry," he breathed. The old bastard was still alive—which was a miracle in and of itself, because he'd already been ancient eighteen years ago—but his presence meant something much more significant.

Jack looked to the ceiling, imagining the rooms above—if Henry was down here, then one of those rooms could hold, "Lucy." He practically growled her name.

He would never remember dodging past the butler, dashing down the hall, or mounting the stairs two at a time. One moment, he was in the kitchen, the next he was wandering the second floor. All of the doors on the second floor were wide open, save for one. His Lucy was behind that door, he knew, but it was locked. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been a problem—bedroom latches weren't that hard to break, after all—but he could hear footsteps catching up to him. He could overpower Henry, no question, but if the man had gotten reinforcements? That was dodgy, and he didn't want his reunion with Lucy colored by such paltry desperation.

Jack leaned close to the door, unknowing whether the room's occupant could hear him. "Soon, love," he whispered lowly, then turned and ran out of the house as quickly as he could.

* * *

Lucinda startled awake and stared blearily around her bedroom. Had she just heard someone speak?

"Lass?" someone hollered through the door.

She frowned. "Henry?"

"Are you all right, lass?" he asked, sounding panicked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lucinda had never feared for the clarity of Henry's mind before, but she was beginning to now. What terror was the man expecting to befall a young, sleeping widow? "Is something the matter?"

There was a weighty pause from the other side of the door. "No," he finally replied, a forceful note in his voice. "Nothing at all, Miss."

* * *

Jack wandered the streets for hours, running his fingers over the compass wonderingly. For so many years his thoughts had lingered on his fair young Lucy, and the compass had never picked up on that before. But then, before he hadn't felt as though he were properly situated to impress his Little Lady. Apparently, he was now, or so the compass thought.

A smile split his face—rational or not, his Lucy was here, on Nevis, within easy reach. How was he meant to contend with that thought? All he wanted to do was find the blasted woman and steal her away! But the nervousness was setting in already, the worry that she would be content with her life here or that she would not greet him as warmly as he wanted to greet her. He needed to know more, needed to get information somehow.

And that was precisely when he spotted the lovely Miss Maplethorpe. Heedless of the fact that he was more or less dressed as himself rather than Mister Teague, Jack made his way over to the young Miss—perhaps she would know something of his Lucy.

* * *

Lucinda stood before the merchant's stall in amazement. It was a small establishment with an odd assortment of items, but she always found the most curious things there and so she came back, week after week, to see what the merchant would have for sale. This week was mostly glass baubles and small trinkets, but a lone necklace caught her eye. The jewels were most likely fake, but it was still very pretty and it would match one of the dresses she had ordered yesterday.

"I'll take this one," she told the merchant, already reaching for her coin purse. She nearly screamed when a hand fastened tightly about her wrist, but instead she turned quickly to face her attacker.

Much to her relief, it turned out to be Mister Teague, only he didn't look half as respectable today as he had yesterday. Today he looked more like a gentleman of fortune, what with all his mismatched clothes, bandana and tri-cornered hat, and the assortment of trinkets held around his waist by a long sash. His dark eyes were darting between her and the coin purse she held and, at first, she thought he was wondering—as many people often did—why a woman of her station didn't have something newer or more fashionable. But as the disbelieving look in his eyes slowly faded away, she knew that wasn't it.

She pulled her wrist away from him, then looked between Mister Teague and the coin purse. It wasn't until his eyes finally lit with comprehension that Lucinda finally realized what he was seeing that she wasn't.

He reached for her again but she stepped away, her breathing suddenly labored as her gaze narrowed upon his hauntingly familiar, chocolate-colored eyes. In one, painfully stark moment of clarity, she could see what she had missed yesterday, could connect the familiar coloring and mannerisms to a boy she knew only too well.

Eyes narrowed, reeling from the sudden realization, a single question burst from her lips. "Sparrow?"

* * *

A/N: For some reason or another, Captain Teague has decided to return to the story. I swear, it's like the characters all give me a nice tip of the hat, and then do whatever the hell they feel like.

I did not write a single part of this chapter in order. I hate it when that happens; it makes everything seem disjointed.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean.


	6. The Growing Darkness

The Growing Darkness

Lucinda's entire being seemed to be in shock—her brain was proving absolutely useless. The only thought that came through to her was that Sparrow was alive, he was with her, and he was currently leading her into an alley by the wrist. She finally latched on to that last fact, and a frown puckered her brow. "What are you doing?"

"We need to talk, love," he replied, his voice so much lower now than it had once been.

"Unhand me this instant," she commanded in her haughtiest voice.

He simply smiled at her.

She fought down a smile herself. This was rather like old times, and it seemed as though eighteen years hadn't changed either of them very much. "I'm warning you, Sparrow—I shall scream my head off if you don't!"

Sparrow's smile turned a touch wicked. "You ought to be thankful that I'm not carrying you over me shoulder."

She gasped, mockingly scandalized. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?" He turned around fully for only a moment, but the look he gave her was so masculine and teasing that she couldn't reply for nearly a minute.

Absently, as she thought of something to say, Lucinda noted that Sparrow walked with a swaying, rolling gate that she had not seen in even the most sea-legged men. Truth be told, she was rather reminded of his father, for he had been the only pirate she'd ever come face to face with, and Sparrow resembled him greatly.

His grip tightened on her for a moment, as they entered an empty corridor between buildings. Then he spun on his heel, facing her, and finally dropped her wrist. "There, you've been unhanded."

She lunged at him, clinging to his broad form in the tightest hug she could manage. "I can't believe it's really you!" she laughed quietly. For the briefest of seconds it occurred to her that this was not in the least bit proper, but then that had always been half the fun of being with Sparrow—she didn't have to be proper.

* * *

Jack's mind went from age thirty to age twelve as he brought his arms tightly about her. Lucy fit him perfectly, her head resting just under his chin—but all he could suddenly think of was that kiss he'd never had the nerve to take.

"I should have known the moment I saw Henry this morning," he said in an effort to distract himself. "It's too much to expect that there would be more than one Miss Maplethorpe on this island."

"You saw Henry this morning?" she asked, her breath tickling his throat. A brief pause followed her question, then a little groan as comprehension finally dawned. "That rotten old man! That's why he was so panicked earlier—and of course he didn't bother to tell me that you'd come back!"

He smiled at her outrage, even as he tried to ignore the fact that he could almost feel her lips against him. This was new territory for Jack, wanting something and yet denying himself, but he didn't want to frighten Lucy so soon after they had found one another. "Chased me straight out of the house, he did," he replied in a slightly pinched tone.

"That man never changes," Lucy laughed—a sound that was so warm and rich that Jack was left defenseless.

"To hell with it," he muttered, gently tipping her head up. He had a moment to revel in the beauty of her sweetly rounded face, to admire the shine of her green-hazel eyes and the dark curls of her long hair, and then he was kissing her.

* * *

Lucy didn't understand it at first. Not the kiss; that she understood perfectly well, for she had been kissed before—although they had always been silly kisses from Lordlings, desperate kisses from stable boys, or perfunctory kisses from her husband, which were not like this kiss at all. No, what she didn't understand was that it was Sparrow kissing her. She'd always endeavored to remember him as he'd been: tall, gangly, mischievous, and twelve—yet here was this man, pressing his lips to her own! In the grand scheme of things, she wasn't sure what to think about that, but she couldn't deny that it was pleasant.

Upon that revelation, it occurred to her that she should probably respond in some fashion.

Lucy leaned up into the kiss, unprepared for Sparrow's reaction. He made a desperate noise low in this throat, like the keen of a wounded animal, and suddenly his hands were moving restlessly. One arm tightened about her waist and the other skipped playfully along her back, teasing the length of her spine until his hand came to tangle in the curls at the back of her head. He pulled her closer, if at all possible, angling her for fuller contact. His lips pressed over hers, no longer a gentle meeting of flesh, but a hungry, restless surge of desire.

She shivered, her body suffused with something she'd never quite comprehended in the past. Desire had been an abstract concept, something she'd heard of but never experienced, for she'd been too young to appreciate the only man she'd ever really wanted. She experienced that delight now, the strange, bittersweet combination of feeling him all around her and yet wanting more, knowing it would never be quite enough.

Lucy slid her arms around his neck, pulling him down closer to her as she made a quite keening sound of her own. He seemed surprised by her move, but not displeased, so she continued, reveling in the feel of him all the while. Moment by moment, she pressed her lips harder against him, until she was all but nipping at his lower lip. When he opened his mouth to her, his tongue sweeping out to meet her own, she felt paralyzed by the pleasure of it. A strange heat curled lazily through her veins, making her body feel heavy and lethargic, yet at the same time it filled her with an agitated sort of energy—she was content and yet, at the same time, it seemed as though she couldn't move enough to satisfy the sudden desire Sparrow was stoking within her.

They both parted on a groan, only separating so far as was absolutely necessary. His hand still tangled in her hair, his lips just ghosting over her own, Sparrow let out a quiet laugh—a happy, satisfied sound that simply made her want to kiss him again.

He smiled. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I said we needed to talk."

"Why not? I thought we were communicating quite nicely." She laughed at the thought that their roles had been reversed—that he was talking as a sensible woman, and she was talking as a brash man.

The hand at her neck moved, coming to trail across her cheek and down her jaw. Sparrow's hands were not soft—callused, as they were by years of toiling at sea—but they were gentle nonetheless. His fingers slid down her neck, across her throat, and up to the opposite cheek where he trailed his thumb under her eye. "Eighteen years," he murmured quietly. "I can't believe it's been that long."

Neither could she—they fell in together so well that it was almost as if they had never been separated at all. Her thoughts, which were busy reminiscing, were interrupted when Sparrow ran his fingers over the arches of her brows and down the length of her nose. "What are you doing?" she asked bemusedly.

"Memorizing you," he smiled in that carefree way she had missed so much. "You've changed a lot, you know."

Lucy relaxed her grip, letting her arms trail ever so slightly over his shoulders and down his back. "So have you," she replied, marveling at the muscle she could feel tensing along his back.

"Well," he nearly sing-songed, "feel free to do some memorization of your own then." His fingers finally left her face, tracing instead along the length of her shoulders and then her collarbone. In fact, it wasn't until he reached the top of her bodice that the situation finally dawned upon her.

She slapped at his hand, tangling his fingers with her own. "I will not feel you up in an alley, Sparrow," she replied pointedly, ignoring that she had been doing just that mere moments ago.

He simply raised a brow. "You'd prefer to do it in the street?"

Lucy hit his shoulder playfully. "You've turned into quite the wicked man!"

"I thought you'd be a proper lady by the time I came back," he mused, "but you're even more brutish now than you were at six."

"I could say the same about you," she snorted. "Honestly, 'the street'?" She shook her head. "Unless your plan is to get the two of us leg-shackled by the local priest, then I wouldn't recommend it."

Sparrow seemed momentarily panicked by the idea of marriage, likely having gone to great lengths to avoid such a fate before, but he quickly shook the thoughts away, changing the subject slightly. "Nearly twenty-four and still unwed, Lucy?" His free hand came up to brush her cheek. "You're much too pretty to be a spinster."

"I'm not," she replied, trying to ignore the fact that he probably would have kissed her even if she had been married; that thought did funny things to her heart. "Haven't you heard? It's not Miss Maplethorpe anymore—it's Widow Maplethorpe."

He frowned, something dark settling in his eyes. "Your name…?"

"He was a distant cousin; my parents arranged it," she shrugged. By now, the details of her marriage were dreadfully boring to her, but if Sparrow wanted to know, she would tell him. "Alasdair was a kind man, and I shall miss him, but all the same he was quite sickly and it's probably better that he passed as he did."

"What happened?" Sparrow asked, not unkindly, but the darkness in his eyes grew.

"He loved horses," Lucy smiled faintly, remember her late husband's foolish enthusiasm, "but he was not a particularly good rider."

"Broke his neck, did he?" The question was gruff and just the slightest bit out of place, but it was hard to say why.

She nodded, her smile turning a touch sad. "The surgeon told me that he died instantly, that he didn't have time to feel any pain. This probably sounds horrible, but I think that was a better death than slowly expiring from whatever sickness took hold of him."

"I shouldn't have asked." Sparrow shook his head and stroked her cheek comfortingly, but it seemed as though there was a touch of bitterness lurking around his lips. "You probably hate talking about it."

"On the contrary," her smile bloomed, full and sweet, even as she felt off kilter with this man before her. "I'll miss him, as I said, but I'm done mourning for Alasdair. He was a good friend and I prefer to remember him at his finest."

The bitterness faded somewhat, but the darkness remained. "Friend?" he asked carefully.

"It's no secret that our marriage was one of convenience," Lucy shrugged once more. "Alasdair might have been my husband in the eyes of my parents, my neighbors, and God—but not in mine, and he respected that because he didn't really see me as his wife."

* * *

Was it a sin to despise a dead man? Jack had never met this Alasdair Maplethorpe, but he hated him on principle. The only nice thing to be said was that the Lordling had not been man enough to warm his wife to their union—that, and he'd had the good sense to leave Lucy as a young widow.

He had always feared, in a visceral sort of way, that Lucy would be attached to someone by the time he returned. Some of his worst nightmares involved reuniting with the Little Lady while she was surrounded by a mob of her own children. Jack could admit that he didn't like the thought of her committed to a husband or a home—finding out that she was a widow, that she'd _been_ married, was almost just as bad.

But it was also an opportunity, and Jack had never passed one of those up yet. His Lucy was free in a very essential way and, if their kiss had been any indication, she wasn't completely adverse to the idea of getting more intimate with him—all he had to do was quietly, irreversibly insert himself into her life, and he'd have his girl back.

Irreversibly? He groaned at his own thoughts. Ever since Lucy had mentioned marriage, he couldn't get the idea out of his head. He kept forgetting one very important factor in all of this: he was a pirate. He knew himself too well to pretend that he could make a good husband; he was too in love with adventure, with the freedom granted by a ship on the sea, and he was much too used to simply getting up and leaving whenever the urge struck him. At best estimate, he could spend approximately half a year ashore before he went absolutely insane. And sweet, gentle Lucy wasn't the sort one took aboard a pirate ship and expected to flourish. A marriage between them would be one of distance and desperation—the marriage his parent's had shared.

"You must tell me all about your adventures on the sea, Sparrow," Lucy demanded, interrupting his thoughts.

He quirked a brow, grateful to be saved from the depths of his own mind for once. "We're old friends, Lucy," he told her, stepping away so that only their hands remained entangled, "you can call me Jack."

"You never actually told me your name, if you'll remember," she replied plainly, leading the both of them out of the alley and onto the street, "but if it's Jack you want, then that is what I shall call you."

* * *

Captain Teague leaned against the railing of his ship, the Misty Lady, and stared out at the vastness of the ocean around him. There had once been a time when such sights had filled him with the undeniable thrill of adventure, but no longer. It seemed that the longer he sailed and the more he saw, the less he was impressed by it all. Yet he still felt the itch for exploration—he'd seen it all, done it all, but it wasn't enough. He'd sailed for years, the ghost of a man who hadn't found the will to die. There had to be more out there, something that could give him back that spark of life; he just hadn't been able to find it yet.

Perhaps that was why he clung so desperately to Jackie. The boy was full of life, always finding trouble where it should not exist. His son was a lodestone: attractive to all sorts of danger and all manner of adventures.

Teague sighed and shook his head. When had he—one of the most feared pirates throughout the whole of the Caribbean—been reduced to living vicariously through his son? Even now, on his way to correct whatever mistake Jack was about to embark upon, Teague felt nothing but the lust for years long since past. Somewhere along the way, he had stopped looking forward, his eyes forever fixed on what had come before.

He'd known, when he was teaching his son the ins and outs of piracy, that he had been grooming a replacement—another Teague to take his place in the next generation of pirates—but was his time really up so soon already? Despite his absent passion, Captain Teague didn't feel like letting go of the helm just yet.

And so the Misty Lady sailed for Nevis.

* * *

A/N: The chapter title made this all seem like it was going to be way more melodramatic than it really was, didn't it?

I will admit upfront that not a lot is known about Captain Teague since he had maybe two scenes—I'm making most of it up as I go along, but I did take the name of his ship off his wikipedia page. I'm not sure if that's actually true or not, but let's just roll with it, shall we?

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I own none of this, and I'm not making any money off of it either.


	7. The Impending Disaster

The Impending Disaster

Walking down the streets, arm in arm with Jack, left Lucy feeling funny. Never mind that she had done the exact same thing yesterday—only, yesterday, he had been Mister Teague. This was completely different, simply because it was her long lost Sparrow. It was strange to think that the man beside her was the same young boy she had once adored so thoroughly. And yet, it was logical—the man so greatly resembled the boy that it was almost as if he hadn't changed at all.

But the memory of his lips pressed tight to her own begged to differ. As a child, Lucy had instinctively known that there was a reason men and women paired off, and that whatever it took to make a good match, she and Sparrow had possessed it in abundance. Being so young, she hadn't understood attraction or the fact that she had been suffering from it, a fact that he, six years her senior, would have known full well. Yet he'd never done anything untoward, even with the growing urges of a man plaguing his young body. But he was a boy no longer—he'd grown into Jack, and Jack obviously had no issue with obeying the siren call of attraction.

Lucy was surprisingly all right with that revelation, but she did wonder where that left their relationship. They were just reunited, childhood friends, yet that kiss seemed to suggest more.

"Well," she prompted, shaking her thoughts off.

He gave her a sideways look, his chocolate eyes regarding her lazily. "Well?"

"What have you been doing for eighteen years?" she pressed.

"I doubt those stories are fit for your ears, love," he replied teasingly.

Lucy would have stamped her foot if they hadn't been walking; he was being difficult on purpose. "You promised to tell me," she reminded him darkly.

Jack shook his head. "I promised to come back, which I have."

"So we're just going to walk around in an awkward silence then?" she demanded, tightening her arm about his.

He smiled wickedly and leaned in close. "I prefer to think that our silence is cozy—intimate even."

Lucy ignored his flirtation. "You can't just barge into my life after all these years and not tell me what you've been up to!"

"The same goes for you, you know," he replied, a strange gleam in his eye.

"Ah," she nearly laughed, "you want a trade."

"I am a pirate, after all," he nodded seriously. "I don't give something for nothing."

She had guessed that, of course, but this was the first time that he had actually admitted to his profession. Curiously, she was undisturbed by the news, despite all of its implications. "I'm afraid my stories aren't all that grand; they're quite boring, in fact."

"Bore me, then," he smiled once more, "although I doubt you can."

* * *

What was it about love that made a man stupid? Captain Teague pondered the question one night as he stood at the helm. He wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but he was willing to give it attention.

Was it the lust? A lusty man would fight tooth and nail, to the death if need be, for a pretty lass, which was certainly stupid because there were always more lasses to be had. But no, that wasn't it—a man could kill for the whore he wanted, but not love the woman herself.

Perhaps it was the monogamy. A man in love wanted none but his sweetheart, and so he abstained from all others. Like a corked bottle, his desires would grow, creating a pressure that had no outlet. And, if the man's love was particularly unreceptive or a touch cruel, the man would suffer greatly for his lass when he could simply avail himself of others who were just as fine. To a pirate that did seem rather stupid, but it wasn't the dangerous stupidity that Teague was looking for.

No, the real danger was caring, he finally thought. A man who cared was a man who stood to lose something.

* * *

Lucy spent the better part of the week trying to bore Jack, because for every lackluster story she told, he gave her a marvelous tale in return.

"Quite the adventure," she smiled at him from the bed. He had snuck into her room that morning, watching over her until she had awakened. Seeing him first thing in the morning had sent her heart to fluttering, especially when he'd started to regale her with stories of his piratical exploits while she still laid in bed. She couldn't help but feel that this was all _right_ somehow.

"It's also where I got—" he fumbled around with the braids in his hair, frowning when his fingers apparently found nothing. "Forgot I had to take them out."

She sat up, uncaring whether he saw her nightgown. "Take what out?"

"I started collecting beads and trinkets from everywhere I've made port, as a sort of record of where I've been," he replied, coming over to the side of the bed, "I keep most of them threaded in my hair, but I didn't want to attract too much attention while I was here, so I took them out."

"Why _are_ you here?" She frowned—it was a thought that had been bothering her for days. "I'd be flattered if it was me, but you were just as surprised as I was."

He frowned a little himself, stooping down so that their gazes were more or less level. "In a way, you are the reason."

"But also not," Lucy guessed rightly.

Jack nodded and began explaining the strange properties of his compass to her—if it had been any other man, she would have thought him a liar, but Jack seemed much too sincere.

"So your compass brought you to Nevis for me," she smiled, but it immediately melted into a concerned frown, "although you didn't know it at first and, in the absence of that reason, you decided to order a raid on Tamarind Bay instead?"

"That about sums it up," he replied, trying to smile charmingly, as though that would change what he had just told her.

"Jack," Lucy clutched at her bedclothes, "Tamarind Bay is my home!"

He flinched at her exclamation. "I had noticed that—it took me a while, but I _did_ notice."

"You must order the attack off," she told him seriously.

But Jack only shook his head, a pained look in his dark eyes. "It's not that simple, love."

She balked at him. "But you're the Captain!"

"Which means I tread a very fine line between being a part of the crew and mastering the crew—if I lose their favor, I lose everything," he replied, and there was such a strangled and desperate note in his voice that she wondered if he wasn't speaking from experience. "An unpopular Captain doesn't stay Captain long."

Lucy frowned. She didn't have much in Tamarind Bay, seeing as she led such a solitary lifestyle, but it was still her home. There were many people here that she cared about, and she couldn't honestly believe that Jack would put all that she cared for in danger just to fill his own pockets. "So what will you do?"

"I'll think of something," he sighed heavily, "but you best come to terms with the fact that this raid will probably go forward as planned."

* * *

That wasn't what she wanted to hear, he could tell by the way she suddenly narrowed her hazel eyes. In fact, judging by the sudden downturn of her lips and the light flush of her cheeks, she was getting quite mad at him.

Jack didn't know how to smooth over this problem. Lucy hadn't for a single moment seemed to care that he was a pirate—until he'd tried to act like one. Not that he blamed her, raids were dangerous business and it seemed as though everything she cared for resided in Tamarind Bay. How was he meant to explain his position to her when she was the one put in danger?

His crew was in a tricky place; they had suffered a bad string of losses. The Pearl was poorer than she'd been in ages, and the crew, though loyal, was looking to Jack to straighten things out. They would lose faith in him if he ordered off the raid, and the last thing he needed right now was someone edging to replace him—he'd gotten more than enough of that from Barbossa.

Still, there had to be some way that he could satisfy his crew and not completely destroy Lucy's trust in him. Perhaps a sneak attack of some kind? That's what he had thought of originally, seeing as he didn't want to accrue any more losses for the Pearl—she was already sailing shorthanded—and low losses for the Pearl meant, hopefully, low losses for Tamarind Bay, which would please Lucy. There had to be someway to bleed Tamarind Bay dry without actually making it _bleed_.

Lucy's hand slipped into his own and she tugged at him until he was sitting on the edge of her bed. "It must be dreadfully hard to be a pirate Captain."

"Sometimes," Jack replied seriously. He could tell she still didn't fully appreciate his position, but she was trying to make peace because she was too enamored of his company to desire anger. "On occasion, being Captain is vastly more dangerous than simply being a pirate—you are surrounded on all sides by potential enemies because you can never achieve full camaraderie with your crew."

Her fingers began to dance over his hand, tracing intricate designs into his skin. "Why do you stay Captain then?"

"It's what I was trained to be," he answered without thinking. "It's all I know how to do." His hand curled around her wrist, where he began to trace creeping designs of his own. "I served my time as a crewman, I struggled my way to the top—I _deserve_ to be a Captain. And it's not always terrible," he smiled. "The ship is mine, certain members of the crew are loyal to their very last breath, and I get to choose where we go and what we do when we get there. Captaincy is very hard, but it's easier than _not_ being a Captain."

She frowned ever so slightly. "You say that as if you know—"

"I do," he cut her off, his thoughts turning to Barbossa once more. "But that is a story for another time, milady," he lifted her arm, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist.

Jack couldn't help but touch her every time they were together. Usually they were just fleeting caresses or brief little kisses, but he wanted more—after eighteen years, and Lucy being even more lovely than before, he _needed_ more. The problem was he wasn't sure how far to push her; she was receptive to him, but how far was she willing to go?

These thoughts were damn near painful to him, a man who was used to simply taking whatever he wanted. He hated waiting on her to set up their boundaries, but what else could he do?

Her hand flew to his lips, her brow furrowing. "Did you hear something?"

He was about to shake his head when he heard the distinctive _clack_ of a lady's shoes in the hall outside. For a moment he just stared at Lucy as he processed the thought that they were likely about to get caught, and nothing could look worse than a man sitting at the edge of a lady's bed—never mind the fact that they were both fully dressed. Unless the person about to enter was an easily bribed maid, there would be scandal enough to end in wedding bells.

Somehow, he wasn't as disturbed by that thought as he'd always been before.

* * *

Lucy knew those shoes—they were Agatha's wooden-heeled boots, she was the only woman on the island with a pair like them. She was also the only woman on the island who would burst into Lucinda's room unannounced—and if Agatha caught Jack sitting at the edge of Lucy's bed, she wouldn't be Widow Maplethorpe for much longer.

And there was Jack, just sitting there as though waiting to get caught!

In a flash, Lucy jumped out of bed, taking Sparrow with her. "Honestly," she grumbled as she ducked the both of them behind her dressing screen, "you're a pirate; shouldn't you know how to hide in situations like these?"

He stood behind her, slipping his arms around her waist as he leaned close. "You're thinking of a lover," he whispered into her ear just as the door opened. "A pirate doesn't much care if he's caught or not."

"Yes, but right now you're Mister Teague," she hissed back, praying that the dressing screen covered the both of them, "and that presents problems for the both of us."

"Lucinda?" Agatha called, a soft _thump_ announcing that she'd sat in one of the chairs before the fireplace.

"Ah," Lucy stuttered, elbowing Jack in the ribs when his breath tickled her neck. "I'm just getting dressed."

"It's quite late to only be getting up now," Aggie rustled something, probably adjusting the folds of her skirts. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Perfectly fine," she replied, hoping the older woman wouldn't notice the slightly hysterical note in her voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I just received word from your brother," Agatha said, a smile in her voice. "He intends to arrive sometime next week."

Jack's lips brushed against her ear, making her shiver. "Your brother?" he asked in a nearly silent whisper.

"_Alasdair's_ brother," Lucy tried to shush him, but she couldn't help explaining, "although even without Alasdair, Hadley would still be family, seeing as he's a distant cousin."

"Lucinda," Agatha sounded concerned now, "did you hear me?"

"Ah, yes, it's just… it's been so long since I've seen Hadley that I was overcome with," she searched around for an appropriate word. "Shock," she finished lamely.

Jack hid a chuckle in her shoulder, his hands moving to caress her ribs through the thin material of her nightgown. "It's hard to imagine you shocked at anything."

Lucy slapped at his hands. "I can be delicate when the occasion calls for it, you know!"

Agatha, meanwhile, carried on with her conversation, blissfully unaware of what was happening behind the dressing screen. "It looks like our list of guests is turning out quite nicely. All that's left is to ask Mrs. Dockery if she intends to bring a guest or not, and to track down Mister Teague on the matter of his attendance."

"Mister Teague?" Lucinda asked in a strangled voice. She could feel Jack's silent laughter—he was enjoying this entirely too much.

"Surely you haven't forgotten that we invited him!" Aggie sounded scandalized.

Lucy squirmed when Jack's head came to rest over her shoulder, his arms tightening about her waist. "As I remember," she replied hoarsely, "it was you who invited him."

"I think he shall be quite the addition to our little celebration," Agatha enthused. "Despite his… _eccentricity_ he must have all manner of interesting stories to tell. Oh, I do hope he can attend!"

"Somehow," Lucy gave an un-lady like snort, "I get the feeling that he won't be able to resist."

Jack's hands began creeping once more, as if in agreement with her last statement. This time he slid to her hips, nearly making her giggle when he found a ticklish spot.

She caught his hands in her own, bringing them back up to her waist. "Are you trying to get us caught?"

He pressed his face to the side of her throat, and she could feel his smile. "What if I am?" he returned darkly.

Agatha rustled again, getting to her feet this time. "Do you need help with your dress, Lucinda?" she asked, approaching the dressing screen.

Lucy felt a moment of pure terror—they could not be caught! "What?" she squawked.

"You're taking an awfully long time to get dressed," Aggie said in concern once more. "Perhaps you're having trouble?"

The breath left Lucinda's lungs, but she managed to get out a hoarse, "No!"

The older woman turned away. "There's no need to shout."

"Why don't you go down to the parlor, Aggie? I'll," she stuttered as Jack's teeth closed gently about the shell of one ear, "I'll meet you there in a few moments."

Agatha gave a long suffering sigh but complied, grumbling all the while.

Jack, however, didn't move, didn't let Lucy go, even when they had been alone for several minutes. Time seemed to stretch out dangerously in those stolen moments behind the dressing screen—they were pressed together like lovers, and if they stayed that way much longer, they _would_ become lovers. Lucy had loved the boy, but could she love the man? Did he even want to be loved? He was a pirate, after all, his future was uncertain, and she didn't want to commit her heart to something that would not last. Knowing this, she found the strength to push him away.

He didn't go far, in fact he only gave her just enough room to begin dressing—a process that he seemed to take acute interest in. "You seem embarrassed. Why is that, I wonder?" he mused aloud, his smile dark and self-satisfied.

"Because I've never been so undressed in front of a man before," she snapped back, praying that her face didn't reflect her embarrassment too much. For a brief moment she eyed her undergarments—to get them on she would have to doff her nightgown, but there was no way she could do that in front of him. With a heavy sigh, she scrapped the idea and decided to use her nightgown as an undergarment.

"Not even your husband?" he pressed, prowling behind her in a very disconcerting way.

Lucy struggled with her corset, but it laced in the front so she managed to get it closed eventually. "Especially not my husband," she replied after a moment.

Jack didn't comment, but he did seem to draw closer at those words.

She struggled to get into the heavy mass of her dress, and was quite pleased with herself when she fastened most of the thing on her own. In fact, she'd managed to do everything but secure the neat row of pearl buttons that lined the back of the gown. There was no help for it; she would have to ask him to do it. "Button that up, will you?"

He stepped close, until she could almost feel his legs pressing into her wide skirts. "I thought you didn't need help," he replied, a smile in his voice.

She gathered her hair and glanced over she shoulder at him. "Most men would jump at the chance," she told him haughtily.

Something dark and altogether dangerous began to burn in his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was frighteningly fierce for all its gentle smoothness. "Most men would lose their hands if they tried."

Lucy shivered as he slowly fastened her buttons, thinking over his change of mood. He did that sometimes—became someone she didn't recognize, someone possessive and intense. She didn't know what to make of it.

He finished with her buttons, but didn't move away. Instead, he merely pressed closer, until she could feel him along the entire length of her back, as she had before. But this time he didn't lay his hands upon her—one hand moved to snatch the small object hanging from the end of the dressing screen. "I can't believe you kept my coin purse all these years," he said, a faint note of awe in his voice as he studied the threadbare little bag.

"It was all I had of you," she swallowed thickly, fighting down the urge to squirm or to face him; if she faced him they would end up kissing. "Even after I had resigned myself to the fact that we would probably never meet again, I couldn't let go of it. Or of you; your memory has haunted me every day of my life."

"You were only six at the time," there was the slightest hint of a laugh in his voice, "and when I first left, I was forever afraid that you would forget me. Maybe it's just the pirate in me, but I'm glad you couldn't."

Lucy felt her heart stutter. She wanted to kiss him, wanted to know this man behind her in every way possible, but she was afraid of taking more without knowing where his own heart laid in the matter. "Where do we stand, Sparrow?"

"Literally," he drawled, "in your bedroom."

She rolled her eyes, though he couldn't see it. "Metaphorically?"

Jack sighed heavily and drew her into his arms. "It would be foolish to deny that there is something more between us than simple memories." His lips grazed the side of her throat, caressed the very edge of her jaw. "But I don't know what name to give it. Do you, Lucy?"

"No," she said, wrapping her arms over his, holding him close, "but—"

He cut her off with a shake of his head. "Let's just take the days as they come."

His answer hurt her somehow. "All right," she replied sadly, quietly.

There was an awkward pause from behind her, as though he knew how deeply his words had struck her. "You'd best go before your friend gets suspicious," he said just as quietly, letting her go.

She nodded, already moving the to the door, even as she wished for nothing more than to be back in his arms.

"Oh, and Lucy?" he called.

She looked back for his question, but his lips met her instead. It was a gentle kiss that sought to rekindle whatever it was that was dying between them. His lips swept over hers in delicate strokes, making her wish there was more to this embrace than just the simple meeting of their lips. Still, she couldn't help but to feel a little better after the sweet gesture, and when they parted there was the ghost of a smile playing over her face.

"Don't frown like that, love," Jack told her seriously. "We're in this together, after all—whatever 'this' happens to be."

* * *

A/N: It is no secret that my male protagonists invariably have a possessive streak—however, when it comes to Jack Sparrow, I actually feel justified for once. He might be a (philandering) pirate, but look at the lengths he went to in order to get back the Black Pearl, despite the fact that he could have easily gotten himself another ship. If that's not a display of possessive behavior, than I don't know what is. In regards to Lucinda, I think this is probably because she was the only stable part of his life before piracy, so I find it kind of logical that he would regard her with the same feelings he regards his ship.

Please Review! I need them to combat the stress of upcoming final exams.

Disclaimer: I am making no money off this story because I own none of it.


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